


Little Bertie Fly

by ElinorX



Series: Queen and Country [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElinorX/pseuds/ElinorX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the hours before the nation celebrated the birth of a new heir, a man and his newborn child stood in the dark, cherishing the only night they'll spend as father and son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Bertie Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Several days ago I revisited an old fanfic I read called "Whatever Love Means" by the talented Emmylou on FF. I loved it the first time I read it, but I never paid much attention to the Author's Note at the end. This time, I did, and I was struck with the need to write something for it. This darn plot bunny just won't let me be productive in anything else I did until I wrote it, so... here it is. 
> 
> I just want to clarify that the origin of this idea does NOT belong to me. It belongs to Emmylou on FF, and you should all go read her beautifully clever story Whatever Love Means. Anything that might come from me is because I was inspired by her fascinating idea.

 

Several months after Sherlock’s Return (and yes it is capitalized in John’s mind), over morning toast and tea, John finally demanded, “Stages in Fetal Development?”

For the past week, his flatmate had been glued to his laptop, doing god knows what. Ever since then, piles of books have been appearing everywhere in the flat, on the kitchen counter, piled on the floor, stacked beneath the scull and jammed between the sofa cushions. Why, just that morning, John had discovered the thick hard cover textbook  _Stages in Fetal Development_ on top of the toilet in the bathroom.

Any of John’s attempt to communicate with Sherlock had been met with non-committal grunts and hums, and really, the good doctor had reached the breaking point of his curiosity (and patience), “Seriously Sherlock, what have you done?”

“Why do you always assume I’ve done something?” Sherlock responded, only half paying attention.

“After everything we’ve been through, I’m not even going to dignify that question with an answer. Just tell me this,” Setting down his mug and picking up another book,  _Postnatal Complications,_ John decided that something stronger than tea was definitely called for. Sighing, he strongly felt that he was going to regret ever asking, “On the scale of 9.5 to 10 – 9.5 being you actually reproducing with another woman and 10 being me having to worry about the government finding out about the cloned embryo of yourself in the kitchen, how bad is it?”

 Rolling his eyes, and pausing his typing to rise his palms up defensively, Sherlock had about half a dozen snarky retorts on the tip of his tongue ready to be fired when he caught the getting-real-tired-of-your-shit look on the face of his bestfriend’s face. Instead, he pressed his lips together in a frown and said,

“For the love of god, John, where would I have gotten the inclination as well as the capacity to not be bored long enough to procreate?” Which is slightly a lie considering Karachi….and Paris, and Montenegro, but nevertheless Sherlock swiftly clicked shut the screen to his laptop and got up. This was a matter of national security. He headed for the door, already throwing on his blue scarf, a whirlwind of long limps and Belstaff coat. “I have to go.”

“Uhm, so…clone it is then?” John crossed his arm and tapped his foot. “Just to clarify, if the men in black ever do come knocking, what should I tell them? Is it the petri dish in the freezer or the sealed, air-tight container in the fridge you swore up and down didn’t contain flesh-eating bacteria?”

Yup, John Watson spoke two languages: English and Passive Aggressive.

“Oh John, I don’t know where you get these ideas from.” Sherlock sighed, “Rest assured I haven’t broken any scientific frontiers by accomplishing the first successful human cloning – although it should be a fun endeavor, remind me to try it sometimes.”

That last part earned him a swat against the chest and an eye-roll, “I’m not sure the world could survive two Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock pondered on that thought, “Well actually, I would argue-“

"No, I love you, Sherlock, you’re my best friend, but seriously I’d rather not have two of you to chase after. Now off you go.  Don’t you have some secret business to attend to?”

“Oh yes.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?”

Sherlock smirked, “All in the due time, my dear John.”

Then he swept around and bounded down the stairs, leaving John to shake his head in wonder and pray that London could withstand another one of Sherlock Holmes’ episode of madness. He texted Mary, wondering if they were still up for dinner and movie. 

As it happened, Sherlock was not to be blamed for any of the preceding events.

 

~

 

He entered the maternity ward after dusk. St. Mary’s was under heavy surveillance, for obvious reasons, and he was not surprised at all to see the very best of the best within the security detail tonight - he’d been the one to assign them to this task force in the first place. The commander of the team, an ex-naval officer, was less than happy to play babysitter, but conceded eventually considering the circumstances.

“Good evening, Sir.” The commander in the Tom Ford suit greeted him, the rigor on his stoic face softened just a fraction. He had been an agent of MI6 for many, many years, and one of the most reliable operatives in the secret service. Coming from a man who once said he didn’t trust his own secret service, this was a high praise for the commander.  

“Good evening to you too, James.” The man tucked away his ID and scanned the area quickly. The nurses were at their stations, and everything was calm. “How is she?”

“Very well”

“I hope I haven’t arrived at an inopportune time.” The man in the bespoke suit inquired casually, but the commander knew the gravity of his question.

“Not at all. The Prime Minister and other lords visited earlier, and Their Highnesses were here all afternoon but now has taken their leaves. The last round was done 20 minutes ago by the nurses.”  _No one is coming for a while. She is alone._

“Does Cailean know why you’re stationed here?”

The commander’s mood lightened at the mention of a bespectacled boffin probably hacking away (literally) at a laptop as they spoke, “No. Though I’m sure he’d figure it out soon enough. You owe me for this.” He gestured discretely for his subordinates to fall back several meters from the door way, at a perfect distance to offer both protection for their assigned patient and privacy to her guest with the thin, black umbrella.

Nodding once to the commander, the man entered quietly, sliding the glass panelled door softly behind him.

She was lying within a deep slumber, and for a minute he paused and just looked at her.  _Truly_  looked at her. He hasn’t been able to do that for sometimes now: to stand before her and gaze upon her as freely as he liked. In the flesh, without the barrier of cameras lens between them, he saw that as much as she had to change, she was still very much the same.

Still lovely as ever.

Slowly, he took three steps, his long strides bringing him right next to her hospital bed.

Her face was turned towards the window, as if she’d fallen asleep watching the newborn lying within his plastic, hospital-issued crib. She slept peacefully, with a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. In the hand resting over her abdomen was a blackberry, a parting gift from him to mark the end of her long employment, and at the sight of it, he knew she had been waiting for him.

Reaching out, he thought to wake her, but changed his mind last minute to graze her temple, smoothing back an errant curl from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. He paused briefly, caught by an internal struggle. The urge to run his hand through her hair like he used to grew more beckoning each second he remained in her presence. This wasn’t right - she wasn’t his wife - he shouldn’t, but he  _wanted to._

What harm would come it? Nobody would know.

As the strands of dark silk ran between his long digits, he convinced himself that this was but one small,  _harmless_  indulgence. She always had beautiful hair, he remembered, though it has grown much longer, fanning across her white pillow like the shadow of a great, heavy crown.

A crown fit for a queen.

A crown which he could never give her. Of course not. A crown was sewn from velvet, lined with gold and bejeweled with the most precious gems and diamonds in the world. A crown shined, for the nation, for its people, for everyone to see. And he…well, he was a man of the shadows, and there were no diadems for people like him, whose existence was woven from whispers and interlaced with secrets and things that could never meet the light of day.

Because him, she was a woman trapped between the two worlds, never truly belonging to either one. Thus was the fate of all covert agents who must play a public figure: to forsake the shadow thats protect them and be delivered into the light where they find themselves blinded.  

She was – _is_ – an operative, his very best one, and like all operatives, she followed her order where it led her, despite it being one she’d have to continue till the end of her days. Only then, would she be free. But…his thoughts drifted to the burial grounds in St. George’s Chapel and to his own familial ones in Cornwall where the slot beside his designated resting place was doomed to remain empty, and he sighed in defeated realization that perhaps not even then.

When they first met, many years ago, he had promised her a life of unbounded flight in exchange for her unconditional loyalty. While she had kept her side of the bargain, he had not. Sometimes he wondered if she blamed him – hated him – for his betrayal, for shackling her wrists in diamonds and collaring her with a title and a name. No matter how golden and dazzling, a cage is a cage. She, a raptor who once lived to soar and hunt, was now asked to sing and please as though she was nothing but a colourful finch.

Touching her hand, he left his apologies hanging in the air between, for nothing he said could undo what was done. He could only hope that her new life would bring her at least a degree of happiness, that the man she was assigned to love would love her sincerely, as she deserved to be, and that her child…

A soft mewling and several unhappy kicks made by tiny, fuzzy limps tore his attention away from the woman to the infant demanding attention. Across the bed by the window, was a clear, fiberglass crib upon a wooden cart. His heart drummed faster as he laid eyes on it; the quiet snivels rang like a bell calling to him, and he approached it with no small amount of trepidation.

He probably shouldn’t, he told himself yet again. Coming here tonight, he had no intention of actually laying sight on the child. His sole purpose was to ensure that both mother and the newborn were healthy and safe – for his peace of mind. Already, he had allowed himself too much liberty, and he knew he was teetering dangerously close to the chasm of sentiment. Should he fall in, there was no guarantee that he would be able to extract himself in one piece.

So the point was clear; he shouldn’t inch closer, shouldn’t lean over the edge and let those baby blue eyes tempt him into…  

Oh, too late.

How lovely those eyes were indeed, bright, azure blue saturated with wonder and curiosity gazing up in earnest, completely undeterred by any negative foreknowledge of him. Then, those impossibility small lips opened and formed a perfect pink ‘o’. His breath hitched in his throat, and he was amazed at how such a simple action could invoke such strong emotions within him.

A startling sense of  _want_ bloomed in the pit of his stomach, spreading rapidly, infectious, potent and thoroughly warm. His fingers twitched, the need so consuming that he had to draw an extra breath to steady himself.  

In the months previous, he had read (yes he briefed himself in the area, call it natural reflex if you will) that the first couple of hours after birth, the infant’s temporary alertness was an ideal occasion for the child and the parents to bond. By purposely arriving half a day after the actual delivery, he had tried to deny himself the possibility of taking advantage of that short window of opportunity, but…

Pudgy little hands coated in saliva reached up towards him, stubborn and demanding, their intentions obvious, and before he could stop himself he was already lifting the small life out of the crib.

Every muscle in his body was taut from nervousness and excitement. He wondered absently if he still knew how to do this…after all it’s been a very long time since his brother had been small enough for him to hold. With the upmost care, he eased the child against his shoulder, placing a firm, but gentle hand under the bum and another supporting him at the base of the neck.

The child took to his chest with great enthusiasm, wiggling once or twice for the most comfortable position before settling against him with a decided finality and fussed no more. The man stayed very still, refraining from any movement, even breathing, for fear of disturbing the tiny human being in his arms.

Never had his senses been as tuned to another individual as they were now: the comforting weight of the small warm body, the tiny fist gripping his lapel, and the puffs of moist, tepid breath against his left collarbone. The constant rhythm of the boy’s heartbeat, each steady  _lup-dup_ vibrating through the layers of his bespoke suit,was an echo of his own beating beneath. Tilting his head, his nose nuzzled affectionately the tuffs of fair fuzzy hair adorning the child’s small, slightly evenly-rounded head. The newborn’s scent was sweet and mild and entirely un-invasive. Despite having never perceived this fragrance before, he could not describe it as anything but familiar, painfully so, as if his mind had known it all along, somewhere lodged deep down, and would always know it, for it was not a knowledge but an instinct that could not be dulled by the corrosion of time.    

Exhaling a quivering breath, the man closed his eyes, letting the tension seep out from his pores, and together, the two of them stood in the dark, the profile of their bodies illuminated only by London’s nightlight – a stolen moment of quiet tenderness between father and son.

In a couple of minutes, he would have to return the infant back to his crib and slip away before the nurses came back for a scheduled check-up. To stay longer than that would be risking being discovered and even he didn’t have a good enough excuse for why a strange man would be alone in the royal ward, holding the most important little boy in Britain in the middle of the night.

The truth and tragedy of the situation was that, it was an anomaly that could never be repeated again. This fleeting, nocturnal rendezvous, the intimate and innocent bonding between a man and his child, something which by nature’s laws should be sacred and pure, to the rest of the world was a sullied and retched affair.

A hundred years ago, this would be considered treason, punishable by death. Thank god for representative monarchy.

The man turned half around, gazing back over his shoulders at the young mother and imagined a dismal future where their secret came to light. The backlash of repercussion on her, on him – and god – on this tiny boy barely a day old, would be excruciating.  

A chill wrecked through him, causing him to shiver and hold the infant closer. He willed his tumultuous mind to cease so he could cherish these precious moments in peace, but the parent in him could not stop worrying. When the sun rose tomorrow, the whole nation, and perhaps even multiple nations of the commonwealth, would be watching his little prince, the much anticipated heir, be welcomed to join the rest of the human race. It would only be an uphill climb from there, he’s not quite delusional enough to believe the child’s life would be an easy one. In the dark, he could protect him from the monsters that lurked in the crevices, but out in the open light, there was no shield that could fend off judgement and scrutiny.

Before the night ends, he must return to the umbra, behind the surveillance bugs and the CCTV cameras, observing from afar, somewhere cold and irrelevant. How ironic that a man like him would condemn his only progeny to burden the limelight from which he himself had escaped.

If he could take it away, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

He thought of the woman that laid in the bed behind him. For someone who treasured privacy and her anonymity so much that she lived a decade of her life without a permanent name, it must kill her to accept that every child she’d ever bear would be subjected to constant exposure. To have her firstborn be his was not his idea, and he vaguely contemplated if this was her form of revenge on him. She sacrificed her freedom, and he sacrificed his only child. He supposed it was only fair: if she was to suffer, as the man who led her down this path, then he too must endure the same.

He already knew, from the heaviness in his chest, that his restraint and self-discipline would be tested endlessly in the years to come. The first of many trials would be in a few hours, when he must relinquish any right he might have and permit another man to carry  _his_ child out of the hospital and bath blissfully unaware in the misplaced congratulations due a newly christened father.

He was a man who liked to hold onto things, to be in control, to have influence where it mattered most. The branches of the governments are just strings on his finger, to pull and pluck as he saw fit. His brother was right of course, his minor position in the British government was just a front for the enormous authority that he wielded behind the curtains, but god, for all the power he held in his grip, he won’t even have a say in choosing the boy’s name.

Somehow, the thought irked him more than he would’ve liked.

But really, a cynical voice chastised, what was he expecting? As the orchestrator of this grand plan, he knew this would happen all along didn’t he? Besides, what more could he provide for the boy that the legal father could not? In all respects, the person whose name is on the birth certificate, though he shared no genetic makeup with the child, was much more fitting for the role of a loving, doting father than he could ever be.

Recalling the utter disaster that was his own father, the man couldn’t help but wince. Who’s to say he won’t turn out the same? It’s not as if he had a very good example to learn from…

Glancing towards the clock on the wall, he sighed as he saw that his time was up.

 _“We don’t have long, you and I,”_ He murmured barely audibly, adjusting the child so that he now laid in the crook of his arms. “ _Tomorrow you’ll be presented to the world as his baby boy, and you will never know that there’s another man out there in the world who had to the privilege to call himself your father, even if it was only for brief little while, in a darkened hospital room, on the day of your birth. And I know you will grow up adoring your legal father, just as he will adore you, and you won’t ever know me as who I truly am, or love me, or even like me, should you and I ever meet. It won’t be your fault if you don’t; I must admit, child, that I not a very likeable man – your mummy can attest to that.”_

He chuckled, eyes crinkling in fondness. Never had been so honest with another human being. The experience was thoroughly refreshing. “ _You won’t ever remember this night, but I was here and I was yours. Dear boy, though you cannot be mine, I will always be yours, and I will do everything within my power to protect you. Our circumstances forbid me from your life, but it can never ever stop me from caring about you, because I do. And though I can never demonstrate it, and though no one will ever remind you of it again, I want to you hear it from me, at least this once, that I love you, dear child, so very, very much. More than I ever expected to, more than I ever thought myself capable of. For as long as there is a beat in my heart and a pulse in my brain, I will not stop, and to that I give you my word.”_

The baby yawned again, opening his mouth wide before sticking teeny fingers determinedly between toothless gums.  

Suddenly, the man found it hard to breathe, the tenacious lump in his throat lodged firmly no matter how many times he tried to swallow it down. He stood before the crib, but he was unable to let go. The idea of parting seemed ten times more dreadful than it had before (if that was even possible).

As if sensing the older man’s distress and the impeding separation from his paternal parent, the infant suddenly whimpered, stirring in his swaddle.

“I know, I know. I don’t want to leave either.” But he was out of time and options. Outside, he could see the commander’s shadow through the curtain, relocating closer to the entrance, signalling that it was time to go.

Bending down, he pressed his lips longingly against the baby’s forehead, bidding his farewell with a kiss, the first and the last. He let his finger pads linger on the soft, squishy tummy of the baby, just for a second longer, taking the chance to gather himself and blink away the sting in his eyes.

All lives end, all hearts are broken.

He was at a disadvantage, but that was clearly unavoidable. He’ll just have to live with it.

He reached the door in seven paces, and with his hand on the glass, he thought to look behind him one last time, at the child he gave up and the woman who must’ve been so exhausted post-labour that she never even - 

“I thought about naming him Sherlock, you know, just to see what would happen.” Her voice was clear, and her words articulate, no trace of grogginess detectable even to his trained ears. She’d been awake for a significant amount of time, and he didn’t notice in the slightest.

Frozen on the spot, he was torn between feeling incredibly proud of her for maintaining her skill set, and completely ill-prepared to face her. How much did she see? How much did she hear?

“Enough.” She spoke again, less brazenly. “I woke up the second he started to fuss after you came in. Call it maternal instinct – funny, I didn’t think I’d have any of those.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea.” He twisted on his heel, lifting his gaze from that interesting spot on the floor tile, an action which required too much courageous for too few muscles involved.

She stared at him unabashedly, and her bright eyes glistened in the dark. It took him longer than normal to recognize that it was because she had tears in them, tears she was way too proud and too disciplined to shed. But the way she looked at him now, her face so open and emotive – it hurt all at once in both the worst and best way imaginable.

“It,” He cleared his throat and repeated, “It wouldn’t be a good idea: Sherlock may be a family name, but it’s terrible and I don’t know what my father was thinking. I certainly shan’t be making the same mistake.”

Her lips quivered, but she smiled. “You’re right. What kind of parents would we be if we named our child that?”

He’d always thought the authors in those books were superfluous and exaggerating, but his heart did skip a beat at her words and he found himself stuttering, his words all a jumble on his tongue, “Yes, yes, my thoughts exactly.”

Three curt knocks on the glass meant if he didn’t leave now, he’d have to be prepared to face national outcry and more collateral damage than any divorce or ‘car accident’ put together.

Reining in his excited emotions, he dipped his chin courteously, “Goodnight Your Highness.”

She followed his act without a beat, “Goodnight Mr. Holmes.”

And just as he was one foot out the door, he sent one last comment over his shoulder, along with virtually indiscernible smile of mischief that he knew she’d appreciate, “Algernon is also a family name. I am quite partial to it.”

The smile that blossomed across her face was radiant, “Then Algernon it is.”

 

~

 

The child, of course, was named George.

Rather unimaginative, as far as names go, according to the world’s only consulting detective when he saw the news broadcast on the telly. His exact opinion of the name was summed in one word: dull. 

The new heir shared his name with the same monarch immortalized on the silver screen by Colin Firth, and there had been some speculations on the internet that the child would thus be affectionately referred to by the royal family as Bertie, a nickname dismissed again by the fore-mentioned detective as silly and ‘not-going-to-happen’. 

‘She’d never agree to call her first son Bertie’ was the only explanation he bothered to offer when John Watson challenged his statement with a casual ‘why not?’ 

“You say that like you know her.” John looked up from the papers, eyeing the detective skeptically, who glared at the telly as if it had somehow offended him.

“I do know her.” Sherlock deadpanned, the ‘you’re-being-slow-John’ was unspoken very loudly. “In fact, I believe so do you,” He added, a pause of consideration later.

John scoffed, “the Duchess of C – no, I’m sure I’d remember if I ever met her. That’s not the kind of thing one would forget. Her face is literally everywhere these days.”

Sherlock’s phone pinged, and John glanced over to see a short text from someone by the name of ‘Q’. The sender  was clearly on the verge of panicking, judging from the tone of the message.

_Are you seeing this? Tell me my eyes are not deceiving me. Do I need to get new glasses?_

_-Q_

Sherlock got up abruptly and made a beeline for his bedroom before John could say anything else, and that marked the end of a very odd conversation.

A week later, a package arrived at 221B for Sherlock, a freshly printed, handcrafted, recently updated version of the Holmes family genealogy. Sherlock flipped through it quickly, and stopped when he arrived at a page that once only had two generation of people, but now had an extra branch extended beneath his older brother’s name.

_Algernon Michael Holmes_

_b. July 2013_

The mother’s name was left blank. He never expected otherwise.

The detective traced the empty spot beside his own, then at the not-so-empty-anymore space beside his little brother’s. Suddenly his phone pinged, the same erotic _AHHH_ sounding through the room (which he secretly was glad no one was around to witness). He picked his phone and smirked at the text. He wondered if it’s possible to read minds, or if perhaps she just bugged his flat. 

_The Ice is melting. Dear ol’ Jim was wrong, on both accounts. I’m in Tokyo. Dinner?_

_IA._

Unbeknownst to him, a new seed desire planted itself in his mind, but first… Sherlock fished out his mobile from the pocket of his dressing gown and sent a quick text that was a week overdue.

  _Since you’ve already gone ahead and added the boy onto the family tree, I assume then it is customary for me to extend my congratulations. But really though? The English Throne? Your ambition knows no bound. At least Mummy would be pleased._

_-SH_

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is. I love the idea of Mythea and there's not enough of it in the world. Yes Anthea's real name is Kate Middleton. And yes I added Q and James, because in my head Q is definitely a third Holmes brother and nobody can tell me otherwise. I refrained from mentioning any real life names within the body of the story because well, I didn't want to jinks Kate and Will's family and marriage. They seem like such a sweet couple, and in all seriousness, I wish them every happiness. But....in fanfiction land where writers are gods, our lovely Duchess of Cambridge is mother, a kickass spy, and a BAMF. Thank you so much for reading.


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